


i’d rather keep the bullet

by figure8



Category: K-pop, SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mob, Consent Issues, Dom/sub Play, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Organized Crime, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:48:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24907894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/figure8
Summary: “Why not?” Mingyu asks, a little bit too daring for a man who already got punched in the face once this evening. “Isn’t that exactly what Chan’s paying me for, beating the shit out of people?”“Chan works for me,” Jeonghan says. The alcohol stings on Mingyu’s skin. “And I have a vested interest in your physical integrity.”That’s a nice way of putting it, Mingyu scoffs internally. It certainly does sound better thanI don’t like bruises on you that I didn’t put there myself,which is something Jeonghan did tell him once, in a drunken fit of rare honesty.
Relationships: Kim Mingyu/Yoon Jeonghan
Comments: 25
Kudos: 151





	i’d rather keep the bullet

**Author's Note:**

> i’ve been working on this fic for months now and i absolutely had to free SOME of it otherwise i was going to shove that google doc through a trash compactor. does it recycle a bunch of themes from bmol? probably, but like, it’s been almost 2 years and i’d like to think i’ve gotten better at the whole conveying meaning through elaborate mafia metaphors thing. could it have been 5k _or_ 50k instead of being this weird almost-longfic with an incomprehensible timeline? i guess??? but this is what we’re all getting instead because the author firmly refuses to outline! 
> 
> **!!** the consent issues tag is there because of power imbalance that’s acknowledged by both characters. i personally don’t believe full consent can be given in circumstances where one person holds the other person’s livelihood between their hands. for all intents and purposes jeonghan is mingyu’s boss here, and on top of that he’s not exactly a law abiding citizen. make of that what you will. 
> 
> 90% of this fic is written at the time i’m posting this, i’m almost sure the final product only demands a second and final chapter, but i’m not SURE sure so 1/? it is 
> 
> you can find a playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7e8F9hHH6rF6kvkfO07VNw?si=Z6H6dXVaSzCczqHfJGbDGg) :D

_ and with this bullet lodged in my chest,  _

_ covered with your name, I will turn myself into a gun, because I’m hungry  _

_ and hollow and just want something to call my own. I’ll be your _

_ slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue  _

_ and final resting (...) _

— R. SIKEN

  
  
  


“Jesus,” Jeonghan says, shaking his head in disappointment. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Mingyu says dryly, throwing a quick look at the mirror on his right. He does look pretty bad, a bruise the size of a fist blossoming right under his eye, red bleeding into purple, split lip to complete the painting. “You should see the other guy.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “Jesus,” he repeats, “Come to the bathroom, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Mingyu used to protest, a lifetime ago.  _ Don’t need you to take care of me,  _ all that bullshit. The truth is, he does need Jeonghan, even if he knows how to patch up his wounds by himself. That’s why he drove to Jeonghan’s house and not his own apartment. They have a routine. 

“I’ve told him a thousand fucking times that you’re not a fucking dog,” Jeonghan says, anger bubbling up, angling Mingyu’s face up to examine the damage under the harsh white light of the bathroom. 

“I didn’t duck in time,” Mingyu mumbles. “My fault.” 

“Your loyalty is admirable,” Jeonghan says coolly, “But my brother should know better than to send you for this type of job no matter what.” 

He presses a cotton pad to Mingyu’s cheek, where the skin broke, imprint of a ring on Mingyu’s face. 

_ Pretty face,  _ Jeonghan had murmured the night they met.  _ Wrong line of work.  _

“Why not?” Mingyu asks, a little bit too daring for a man who already got punched in the face once this evening. “Isn’t that exactly what Chan’s paying me for, beating the shit out of people?”

“Chan works for me,” Jeonghan says. The alcohol stings on Mingyu’s skin. “And I have a vested interest in your physical integrity.” 

That’s a nice way of putting it, Mingyu scoffs internally. It certainly does sound better than  _ I don’t like bruises on you that I didn’t put there myself,  _ which is something Jeonghan did tell him once, in a drunken fit of rare honesty. 

He cleans Mingyu’s bloody knuckles too, methodically, ritualistic. It’s unnecessary. All of this is unnecessary—Mingyu  _ can  _ take care of himself. He comes to this house when he’s hurt because these are the only moments in which Jeonghan actually talks to him. Words with meaning, not just orders and crude jokes. 

“Thanks,” Mingyu says, all patched up. Jeonghan looks at him, mouth a thin, tense line. 

“Have you eaten?” he asks finally. 

“No,” Mingyu says. “I’m not really hungry.”

Jeonghan starts packing away the first aid kit. “Yeah, I figured you wouldn’t be.”

“I can leave,” Mingyu tells him. 

Jeonghan stills. “No,” he says. “Take a shower.” 

Translation, you’re sleeping in my bed. Mingyu fights off a smile. He used to have to fight harder for this. Jeonghan folds easily now, pretense all but forgotten. Mingyu thinks he’s figured out that there is nothing to lose, after all. 

He comes to the master bedroom in nothing but a towel. There’s no need to get dressed simply to get undressed. Jeonghan’s gaze trails down his naked body, appreciative. He frowns at the blue mark fading on Mingyu’s left side, but only furtively, like he knows there’s nothing to be gained from arguing. 

If Jeonghan wants Mingyu spotless, he has options. He never takes any of them, though. As much as he complains about Chan’s decisions, Mingyu remains in his employ. Chan likes him—trusts him, even—but he would part with him if Jeonghan asked, which means Jeonghan never did. 

“Come here,” he calls. Mingyu obeys wordlessly, lets the white towel fall to the wooden floor and climbs on the bed, crawls to Jeonghan on all four until he’s slotted between Jeonghan’s parted legs. 

Jeonghan kisses him sweetly. He’s always so sweet, even when he’s hurting Mingyu, maybe especially then. It’s unbearable and yet Mingyu bears it, parts his lips and moans, lets Jeonghan lick his way inside his mouth. Slow, succulent. Slow,  _ so _ slow, until Mingyu is half hard and panting sharply just from kissing. Jeonghan’s grip on his hair is the only thing tethering him to reality—he can feel himself slipping underwater already. He hisses when Jeonghan presses his lips to the cut on his cheek, sharp pain flashing. Jeonghan tugs his hair harshly in response, forcefully tilts Mingyu’s head back and attaches his mouth to the fragile skin of Mingyu’s throat, sucks and bites until he’s satisfied with the hickey he’s left and Mingyu is trembling, bucking up in a desperate search for friction. Jeonghan’s free hand comes to rest on his hip bone, not holding but  _ suggesting.  _ Mingyu stills. 

“Good boy,” Jeonghan whispers, smiling. “Hold still for me.” 

Mingyu remains frozen when Jeonghan makes his way down his chest leaving imprints of his teeth and cherry-colored marks, body taut as a wire. His cock is leaking now, standing proudly against his stomach. Jeonghan doesn’t touch him there. 

Instead he retraces his way back up, soft kisses this time, soothing. Against the side of Mingyu’s neck, he asks, voice very low, “Why did you come here tonight, Mingyu?” 

Mingyu’s breath comes out short when he opens his mouth. “So that you’d fuck me.” 

They’re way past pleasantries and posturing. 

Jeonghan huffs out a laugh. “Get your face bashed in and your first reflex is to run to me?”

“You take care of me,” Mingyu says, raw, honest. The punch was nothing, it didn’t even make his head ring. If that asshole hadn’t been wearing heavy rings on every finger Mingyu doesn’t think it would have even really bruised. He’s come to Jeonghan with much worse. He’s left Jeonghan’s house with much worse, too.

There’s a clinic downtown that’s on the Kkangpae’s payroll, and Mingyu has been there, there is a clean scar on his shoulder to prove it. Even that, he thinks, Jeonghan could have done for him. No anesthesia, vodka straight from the bottle while he’d push the bullet out with bare hands. Blood everywhere, voice stilted. He’d have given his belt for Mingyu to bite down on, Mingyu decides. It’s a fantasy he has often, because he’d like to know what Jeonghan would look like if Mingyu was in actual danger. He hasn’t gotten shot since they met, and he’s not crazy enough to put himself in that situation on purpose, but he does  _ think  _ about it. 

“I do,” Jeonghan says, a weird lilt to his sentence. “I do, don’t I? Does anyone else take care of you like this, baby?”

“No,” Mingyu shakes his head. He thinks of Chan slipping extra cash in his breast pocket after a job well done. He thinks of his old boyfriends, and how easy it had seemed back then, to love and be loved in return, even if only for a fleeting moment. “No one else. Just you.” 

Jeonghan’s eyes are very dark. He kisses Mingyu again, a specific hunger to it now. 

They’ve had sex in every possible way, in this house. Never outside; the world exists parted in two for Yoon Jeonghan—between these four walls, where it is safe, and everywhere else, where he needs to be on his guard at all time. The point is, Jeonghan has had Mingyu on his hands and knees, he’s had Mingyu spread out on his kitchen table, he’s had Mingyu tied to the bed, he’s had Mingyu in the shower, and against the wall, and in the hallway still dressed and too impatient to do anything about it. He’s made Mingyu scream, he’s made Mingyu cry, he’s made Mingyu beg, he’s called Mingyu  _ baby  _ and  _ slut  _ and a string of words in Korean that Mingyu still doesn’t understand. He knows exactly where to press, what to say, what not to say too. 

This, Mingyu riding him while Jeonghan kisses him breathless, hold loose at the base of his throat, it’s still Mingyu’s favorite. He likes the tenderness of it, their bodies curved towards each other like parentheses, circle completed. He likes that Jeonghan watches him, reads what Mingyu needs on his face, wordless. He likes being able to hide in the crook of Jeonghan’s neck, whine safely there, plead for  _ harder faster harder.  _ He likes knowing that Jeonghan can be gentle just as much as he can be mean. 

“Come for me, baby,” Jeonghan says, hand pumping Mingyu’s cock between their bodies, and Mingyu does, muffling his groan into Jeonghan’s shoulder. 

Jeonghan flips him around after that, fucks him hard until he’s coming too, holding Mingyu’s forearms twisted behind his back. 

  
  


Mingyu’s phone rings at four thirty in the morning. He has to sprint to the bathroom to fish it from the pocket of his jeans before the noise wakes Jeonghan up. Jeonghan is  _ not  _ a morning person. 

“You’re late,” Chan’s voice travels through the receiver. 

“Sun’s not even up, boss,” Mingyu groans. 

“You’re late,” Chan repeats, and then he hangs up. Mingyu drags a hand down his face. 

“It’s too early,” Jeonghan complains when Mingyu walks back into the room. He should have just worn his clothes and left, but he’s stupid and weak and he wanted one last look at Jeonghan before that. “Come back to bed, it’s still dark outside.”

“Chan called,” Mingyu says apologetically. 

“You’re injured,” Jeonghan says. “Tell him to fuck off.” 

“I can’t tell Chan to fuck off,” Mingyu laughs softly. “And I’m not injured.”

“You’re very hurt,” Jeonghan says, fully awake now, pushing himself up on his elbows, the sketch of a smirk. “You need the day off, doctor’s orders.” 

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Pass me my phone,” Jeonghan insists. “I’ll deal with my brother.” 

Mingyu can’t hear what Chan replies to Jeonghan’s  _ he’s with me, find someone else to drive you around for the day,  _ but he guesses from the general musicality of his answer that he’s not very happy about it. Jeonghan presses the red button and flops back onto the mattress. 

“Done. Are you going to come back to bed, now?”

“Sure,” Mingyu huffs. “He’s going to be pissed at me all week, you know.” 

Jeonghan noses at his bicep once Mingyu is by his side again. “I’ll deal with that too,” he says. He sinks his teeth into the muscle, not hard enough to hurt but still felt. “Go back to sleep.” 

  
  


::: ::: :::

  
  


Mingyu’s life was never easy, but it has been, for the most part, straightforward. In Los Angeles there is glamour and there is darkness, and the Kkangpae exists in the liminal space between, the bridge between two worlds. Coked up celebrities need coke, after all. 

Mobsters, too, have needs; which is how Mingyu finds himself working for Lee Chan. Hired muscle, that’s what he could put down on his CV if he had one—that’s all he’s ever been, one way or another. Moving product in the warehouses first, iron will and iron arms, before someone spotted him and decided he’d make a good soldier. He took a bullet in the shoulder for the boss once, stepped between him and a shotgun, bought himself a permanent position at Chan’s side with his blood. Mingyu’s life should have continued being straightforward after that, being Chan’s breathing shadow—and for a while it was, Mingyu supposes. There were months of stillness, routine, business as usual. 

And then there was Yoon Jeonghan. 

  
  


:::

  
  


“My brother’s home,” Chan says. He’s lying on the couch topsy-turvy, head the wrong way around, cigarette smoke curling upwards snake-like from his lips. 

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” Mingyu says diplomatically. 

“Half,” Chan says. “He’s my half brother. Dad’s first son, different mother.”

Mingyu can read between the lines. There is history there he doesn’t want to disturb, words so heavy with meaning their surface is crackling. 

“He was living in Busan for a while,” Chan continues, clearly in a talkative mood. “Solidifying ties, all that bullshit.”

If Chan was his friend, Mingyu would push, prod, force him to talk about his feelings. Instead he simply readjusts his suit, his Colt a reassuring weight against his heart. 

“Does that change anything for us, boss?”

Chan smiles. Mingyu likes that smile—it’s the one that tells him he said the right thing, did the right thing, shot the right person.

“Jeonghan inherited everything,” Chan explains, “But he loves me, God knows why. He shares well.” 

Again, Chan isn’t telling him everything, but it isn’t Mingyu’s job to point that out. Mingyu’s job is to nod as if he understands, and walk Chan to his car. Mingyu’s job is to drive them both to one of the numerous clubs owned by the mob and open Chan’s door, shelter Chan with his body every step of the way. 

Mingyu’s job is also, he realizes quickly, to distract Chan’s brother so that Chan doesn’t have to suffer through small talk after the initial salutations. Chan isn’t good with effusions of sentimentality. Yoon Jeonghan, it seems, enjoys being theatrical. He orders a bottle of Champagne and shoves a flute in Chan’s hands, laughs loudly, holds Chan by the neck like a lioness with her cub. Chan only breaks away saved by the gong, his phone screeching in his pocket. He has to take the call, he grimaces. Sorry, sorry, and Jeonghan chuckles and lets him go, fondness in his gaze. 

“Sit down,” he instructs Mingyu before Mingyu can make a move to follow Chan. 

“I have to...” Mingyu stutters, motioning to where Chan was standing a second ago.

“No,” Jeonghan says simply. “Chan is safe here. Sit down. Tell me your name. You’re new.”

“Kim Mingyu,” Mingyu says. He feels strangely unnerved. Jeonghan’s eyes are piercing, intent. His copper hair falls artfully right above his left eye, asymmetrical. It’s long, shoulder length, framing an eerily beautiful face. There is a feminine grace to him, but nothing soft about it. 

“You’re the new bodyguard,” Jeonghan guesses. “Pretty face,” he says after a beat of silence. Mingyu feels himself blush. “Wrong line of work.”

“I don’t think so, sir,” he dares. “I’m good at what I do.”

Jeonghan rolls the leg of his glass between two fingers, the gold liquid twirling. “I’m sure you are.” 

“Someone else will drive me home,” Chan tells him by the end of the evening, when Mingyu is holding his coat for him. 

“Boss?” Mingyu frowns. “I don’t understand.” 

“Go back to the VIP corner.” Chan finishes dressing by himself. “I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“I asked Chan if he could lend you to me for the night,” Jeonghan smiles agreeably. “Siblings, you know, we’re not so good at sharing toys, normally.”

Mingyu scratches his nape, apprehension settling low in his gut. “I would assume you’d have your own security detail, sir.”

“Oh,” Jeonghan smiles wider, “You’re adorable.” 

“I’m not sure I understand, sir.”

“I think you do,” Jeonghan says. “Take off your jacket, it would be a shame to get it rumpled.”

Mingyu shuts his eyes, inhales deeply. This man reigns over every Korean gangster in the state. If he wants Mingyu to take off his jacket, then Mingyu is going to take off his jacket. 

“The gun, too,” Jeonghan says. “You can put it on the table. Keep the holster.” 

Mingyu places his Colt on the round glass table in front of Jeonghan. This makes him feel much more naked than taking off an item of clothing, but it’s not as if he could shoot Jeonghan and make it out of this building alive. 

“Get on your knees,” Jeonghan says. 

Mingyu breathes in deeply again, wills his fluttering heart down. There is no misunderstanding this. He could tilt his head to the side, bat his eyelashes and ask, pretend to be confused, but he doesn’t think that would play out well for him. 

He sinks to his knees. The carpet is nice, thick. It will hurt anyway if he has to stay like this too long, but he is grateful for a second—that is much better than floorboard. 

Jeonghan pushes himself off the velvet bench, walks to him. Mingyu doesn’t know where to put his eyes, so he looks at Jeonghan’s shoes. They’re nice brogues, perfectly polished, shiny even under the dim lighting of the room. For an absurd second he has the vision of Jeonghan pushing him lower, grip firm on the back of his head, until Mingyu’s lips are touching the glossy leather. He shivers at the thought. 

“You’re scared,” Jeonghan notes. He trails a finger down the side of Mingyu’s face, and then under the holster strap. “You shouldn’t be.”

“I’m not sure what you want from me,” Mingyu says. He’s glad his voice doesn’t shake. Jeonghan is right—he’s terrified. He’s something else, too, but the fear wins out. 

Jeonghan tugs slightly at the strap then lets it go. It’s not elastic enough to really bounce, but it stings against Mingyu’s pectoral nonetheless, bright and fast. 

“I think you and I have a lot in common,” he says. Mingyu, light-headed, just stares up at him. “If I’m wrong, you’re very welcome to get up and walk out. Am I wrong, Mingyu?”

Mingyu tries to think of it logically. He’s on his knees in the middle of a private room in an expensive nightclub because one of the most influential men in California thinks he’s pretty. Chan wouldn’t leave him here if his brother was going to render Mingyu incapable of working the next day, which means Jeonghan isn’t going to damage him too badly. Or at least Mingyu _ hopes so,  _ but this entirely hinges on the assumption Chan puts some sort of trust in him he doesn’t easily give out. Mingyu likes to think he earned his place, that he’d be hard to replace, but the truth of the matter is that he doesn’t  _ know  _ that, not for sure. 

He thinks of Jeonghan sitting on that burgundy couch, Champagne in hand, legs spread, looking like a painting. He’s one to talk,  _ wrong line of work.  _ Mingyu has gotten on his knees willingly for men far less beautiful and far less powerful than that. 

“No, sir,” he hears himself say. “You’re not wrong.” 

“Good,” Jeonghan says. He buries his hand in Mingyu’s hair, presses Mingyu’s face to his crotch. It’s such a casually demeaning gesture Mingyu feels shame trickling down his spine like sweat. Eyes closed, he swallows a mortified moan.

He noses at the outline of Jeonghan’s hardening cock through his pants, heart thumping so fast he can hear it magnified at his temple, crazed metronome. Above him Jeonghan shudders. 

“Good,” he says again, lower. Then, to Mingyu’s surprise, he lets go. 

“Sir?” he blinks up, confused. Jeonghan doesn’t look dissatisfied—quite the contrary, there is a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and his stare is appraising. 

“Get up,” he tells Mingyu. Mingyu pushes himself off his knees, ignoring the slight ache in his joints. Jeonghan cups his face with one hand, thumb digging under his chin. His pupils are blown wide, Mingyu notices breathlessly, dark sun slowly eating away the rich brown of his irises. “There is a back exit,” he continues. “I’m sure you’re familiar. A car will be waiting for you there.” 

And then he just—leaves. Mingyu is left alone in the room, cock throbbing uncomfortably in his slacks and thoughts blurry, out of order. 

He wonders what would happen if he just… went home. Something tells him, strangely, that there wouldn’t be consequences, which isn’t something that happens often in their world. If he got in that car and then changed his mind  _ after,  _ maybe, but he’s almost sure Jeonghan left him to his own devices so that he could make the decision with a cold and level head. 

He puts his suit jacket back on, holsters his gun, takes his time. There is a large mirror in the corridor. He rearranges his hair there, tries salvaging his appearance. There isn’t much he can do about the tent in his pants except for breathing exercises, but after a few minutes he does feel less dizzy, more centered. 

True to Jeonghan’s words, there is a black car waiting in front of the back exit. Mingyu takes a deep breath, looks around. The city is bathed in dark blue, the only source of light the spare street lamps with the moon hidden away by clouds. He opens the door. 

It’s one of the nice cars, the kind Mingyu drives Chan around in. Leather seats, leg space, partition between the back and the driver. The vehicle starts moving the second Mingyu is in. He breathes out, air coming out shaky. The car glides through Los Angeles, no traffic at this hour. It’s taking them away from downtown, Mingyu guesses from the change in landscape, towards the residential areas. 

The driver drops him off in front of a big white house with two greek columns guarding the door. Mingyu lets his eyes trail over the gate, the small fountain in the garden, the perfectly cut grass. Chan enjoys urban life, and Mingyu has gotten used to the opulence of his penthouse apartment among skyscrapers—this is something else entirely. 

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. Ring? It seems ridiculous, but there aren’t many other options. The gate buzzes before he makes a decision. He raises his head, locks eyes with a security camera. Makes sense. 

Jeonghan is sitting at the edge of the large dining table. He changed out of his three-piece and into simple black pants and a soft-looking salmon sweater, no shoes. The house is silent, visibly empty, but Mingyu knows there are armed guards stationed outside, probably inside too, where he can’t see them. The thought makes him feel uncomfortably watched. 

“You came,” Jeonghan says, voice completely unaffected, like they’re discussing the weather. 

“Yes, sir,” Mingyu lowers his gaze. He’s trying to figure out what’s expected of him beyond the obvious. How deferential should he be? Does Jeonghan want him to talk back, just a little, like a real human being? Does he prefers his partners quiet, perfect toys? 

Jeonghan huffs a light laugh, facade cracking maybe for the first time of the night.

“Drop the  _ sir,  _ Mingyu, I’m not into that.”

Mingyu’s face is burning. “What—what should I—”

“Just Jeonghan is fine.”

“Jeonghan, then,” Mingyu says, tests it out on his tongue. 

“Sit down,” Jeonghan motions to the other end of the table. Mingyu obeys. The distance between them is solid wood, bitter metaphor. “Can you tell me why you’re here?”

“Because you want to fuck me,” Mingyu says. Jeonghan likes honesty in his subordinates, he thinks, almost as much as he likes playing games. 

“That’s why  _ I  _ want you here,” Jeonghan says, relaxing back into his chair. “Why are  _ you  _ here, Mingyu?” 

Mingyu mulls it over.  _ Why  _ is he here? The answer is multipart. He’s here because Jeonghan is his boss’s boss. He’s here because he was told to kneel and it made his dick hard. He’s here, also, because he’s curious. 

“I’m here because I want you to fuck me,” he chooses to say in the end. It’s not exactly a lie, even if it isn’t a full truth. Jeonghan arches an elegant eyebrow. 

“Not because you think you have to? I’m quite uninterested in bedding unwilling partners. As said previously, you are welcome to walk out the door. Anytime.” 

Mingyu swallows an acrid laugh.  _ Men like you,  _ he wants to say,  _ you don’t understand consent.  _ The road to saying  _ no  _ is labyrinthian, paved with so much more than easy, straightforward answers. What’s  _ want  _ in the face of survival? 

“I have questions,” Mingyu says. “But—yeah.”

Jeonghan’s eyes sparkle. “Do you want something to drink?” he asks. “I don’t really check the fridge here, but we usually have a little bit of everything.”

_ Here,  _ Mingyu pieces together.  _ He doesn’t live here—of course he doesn’t. Is he married? Is this where he brings everyone he sleeps with, or does he use this place for business too?  _

“I’d rather be sober,” he says sincerely. 

Jeonghan nods in approval. “Smart boy. The kitchen is behind you if you want water. Ask your questions,” he adds when Mingyu doesn’t make a move to get up. 

“What did you—what did you see? In me, that made you—”

“Ah.” Jeonghan’s mouth lifts into a smile. “In this business, one develops a sixth sense for these things. But you already knew that, didn’t you? My brother doesn’t care, but everyone else very much does. It’s not exactly the best of careers for people like us.” 

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think you and I face quite the same limitations.”

“I’ll forgive the  _ sir  _ on this one,” Jeonghan chuckles lightly. “You’re right. You’d get a bullet between the eyes. I, on the other hand, would lose the respect people have for me. And without respect there is nothing. And if I have nothing, then Chan has nothing, and none of the people working under him have anything either. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Mingyu says, forcing himself not to look away. “I’m sorry,” he adds for good measure.

“Don’t be,” Jeonghan shrugs. “I’m not so fragile as to shoot down conversation. That’s a sign of weakness.” He pauses, stares at Mingyu for a long, quiet minute. “Chan said you were good at following orders,” he says finally. Mingyu swallows dryly. “That, too, makes you very appealing to me.” 

Mingyu’s stomach constricts. He can’t put a name on the emotion. Mainly he feels like a mouse in a dark room, acutely aware of the cat’s presence but blind, trapped. 

“I need you to say very plainly what you expect of me,” he manages to push out. 

Jeonghan tilts his head to the side, feline. “Why don’t  _ you  _ tell me how you like it.”

“Me?” Mingyu stutters, taken aback. “I, ah,” he rubs the back of his neck nervously, stops when he realizes he’s giving away how uncomfortable he is.  _ Get it together, get it together.  _ “Rough,” he admits after a short bit of silence. “I like it rough.” 

Something tells him Jeonghan already suspected that anyway. 

“How do you deal with being restrained?”

“That’s fine,” Mingyu says. “Pain is fine, too, as long as I don’t bleed.”

Jeonghan’s eyes slant into two small moons. “That is a very dangerous statement to make. Too much room for interpretation.”

Mingyu scoffs. “This is not my first rodeo.” 

“So you want me to hurt you,” Jeonghan says, staring at him curiously. 

“Not—necessarily,” Mingyu stammers. “I’m just saying that you can.”

“I like control,” Jeonghan says conversationally. “Which shape that takes is up to you.”

_ Yeah,  _ Mingyu laughs internally,  _ I’m sure you do.  _

“You’re implying repeat performances,” he says, questioning. 

“It is rather taxing, going through all this every time, don’t you think?” Jeonghan smiles. “I find one-night stands counterproductive. You are close enough already that there is virtually no risk in bringing you here, and you’ve been astonishingly… suitable, so far.” 

“I’ll take that drink, I think,” Mingyu says, voice coming out strained to his own ears. He’s feeling overwhelmed again, tide rising. 

“I have some very good whiskey,” Jeonghan gestures to the bar on the side of the room. “Why don’t you pour us two glasses.”

Mingyu gets up as if on autopilot. The cabinet is carved out of ebony, rich dark wood contrasting with bright, clean glass. He grabs two crystal cylindrical glasses and serves two horizontal fingers of liquor in each, the amber liquid gleaming under the ceiling light. When he puts Jeonghan’s glass in front of him, fingers close around his wrist. 

Time freezes, suspended. Mingyu looks down, throat dry, weight on his sternum. Jeonghan’s thumb is resting over his pulse. 

“Jeonghan,” he says, hoarse. The name still tastes foreign and inappropriate in his mouth. 

“I think you should kiss me,” Jeonghan says. 

Mingyu leans in. Their lips touch and he suddenly knows he’s screwed beyond repair, has made a terrible mistake. Electricity zaps through his spine, and he makes a small wounded noise at the back of his throat. Jeonghan tugs him closer, lower, and curls his other hand over the back of Mingyu’s neck. 

He kisses with the same assurance he does everything else; so effortlessly commanding it shouldn’t make sense but does. He sinks his teeth into Mingyu’s bottom lip and Mingyu moans, opens his mouth reflexively. He puts a hand on Jeonghan’s shoulder for purchase, gasps against his lips. 

“You’re so easy,” Jeonghan grins, and it is humiliating but there is also awe in his tone, and it leaves Mingyu breathless, skin tingling. 

It seems logical, really, to drop to his knees for the second time of the evening. He places his cheek on Jeonghan’s thigh, looks up, awaits instructions. Jeonghan cards a gentle hand through his hair. 

“You want something in your mouth so badly?” 

Face on fire, Mingyu nods. The grip in his hair tightens. Jeonghan unbuckles his belt. 

There’s something peaceful about sucking dick, Mingyu has always found. It makes him check out of his own brain, the act itself well learned by now, methodical. He relaxes his jaw and hollows his cheeks, sucks when he has to, swirls his tongue, lets Jeonghan maneuver him and breathes through his nose dutifully. The taste, the sounds, the tears at the corner of his eyes, all this is secondary to the strong hold on his hair, the sting at the base of his scalp. Jeonghan comes down his throat, grinding his cock into Mingyu’s mouth, holding him down; and Mingyu chokes on it gratefully, coughing when he’s allowed up. He’s so hard it has become painful, straining his slacks, heat pulsing in his gut. 

Jeonghan sighs, content, sagging back in his chair. He unclenches his fist, lets go of Mingyu’s hair. Mingyu stays still, teeth worrying his lip. 

“If you need something,” Jeonghan says, amused, “You have to ask.” 

Mingyu flushes deep crimson. “Please,” he says. 

He means  _ can I touch myself,  _ but Jeonghan puts one socked foot on his upper thigh and Mingyu chokes on the rest of his sentence. 

“Oh,” he gasps. Jeonghan’s stare is inquisitive. “Please,” Mingyu repeats. 

Jeonghan moves his foot higher, and then to the left, until it’s pressing lightly against Mingyu’s groin. Electric current zaps through Mingyu’s body, wire snapping. He lets out a fragmented little moan. Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. 

“I’m not going to do all the work, Mingyu.” 

Nodding, Mingyu tries rolling his hips. It’s tentative, testing the waters. The pressure isn’t exactly substantial through three layers of clothing, but it’s enough to send waves of arousal through Mingyu’s body, heat flashing through his stomach, his abdomen. Jeonghan presses further, moves up and down slowly.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Mingyu grunts, rocking forward. He’s been turned on for hours now, he doesn’t need much to tip over the edge. The position he’s in is belittling, but Jeonghan’s eyes on him are blazing hot, and that warmth envelops him, sets his bones alight. 

He comes like that, soiling his underwear, body thrashing, biting down a groan. Jeonghan only lets up when Mingyu completely stops shaking. 

With the absence of arousal, even as the endorphins flood his system, Mingyu suddenly feels icy. His boxers are sticky, and the blood in his veins is cold, the sudden flash of shame dizzying. He looks down. 

“Come here,” Jeonghan says. His voice is soft. Mingyu would bask in it like a lizard in the sun, but he can’t move. He hears Jeonghan sigh, and his insides grow colder—he hates disappointing—but before he can apologize there is a dull thump as Jeonghan slides to the floor too, mirroring Mingyu. “Come here,” he says again, but Mingyu effectively doesn’t need to go anywhere because Jeonghan cradles his face between two palms and kisses him very, very gently. 

Mingyu rests his forehead on Jeonghan’s shoulder. His cashmere sweater smells like cologne and tobacco, soothing. He rubs Mingyu’s back through his dress shirt, circular patterns, his touch a slow ache. 

Knees to his chest, water up to his collarbones in Jeonghan’s bathtub, Mingyu allows his body to finally relax. He opens like a lotus flower, shoulders sagging, tension lifting like a cloud after heavy rain. Opposite him, back to the tiled wall, Jeonghan extends his legs until they’re tangled with Mingyu’s. 

“You’re different,” Mingyu says. “From what I expected.” 

Jeonghan huffs out a dry laugh, entertained. “Why, because I didn’t kick you out of the house the second I was done with you?” Mingyu remains pointedly silent. “Is that how you’re usually treated?” Jeonghan asks, tone unreadable. “You need to raise your standards, honey.”

Mingyu can’t decide if the use of  _ honey  _ makes his words condescending or just sweet. 

“I didn’t know you existed this morning,” he says, popping a soap bubble with his pointer. “Isn’t that weird?”

“Aren’t you glad I do?” Jeonghan grins, insufferable. 

“I guess you’re not half bad, sir.” 

Mingyu adds the last word just to bother him, sinking deeper into the warm pinkish water. He hasn’t taken a real bath like this in a while, his apartment only has a shower stall. It’s heaven for the tired muscles in his back and thighs, months of exhaustion bleeding into the water. 

Jeonghan’s expression turns mellower, something akin to calculation in his gaze. “Yeah,” he says, pushing himself upwards to grab a bottle of shampoo from a shelf, “I think I’ll keep you.”

  
  


::: ::: :::

**Author's Note:**

> i would love to hear your thoughts ❤️  
> you can also find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/junmotions)!


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